Christmas Jumper Day
by I'm Nova
Summary: John manages to persuade Sherlock to participate to the Christmas Jumper Day party organised by Scotland Yard. For Sherlock Challenges' prompt Christmas and because I need a bit of laugh today. Finally completed, sorry everyone! '
1. Chapter 1

A. _A. N. Ok, this is supposed to be for this month's Sherlock challenge on Tumblr, which is, unsurprisingly, Christmas. But I know I'll need until the end of the month to write it properly, so here you have a snippet as prologue because I wanted to advertise the initiative before it ended. It's a charity event organised by Save the Children on December 16, and here is the relevant link: ht tp s: two slash_ _christmasjumperday period or g_

Christmas Jumper Day

"Absolutely not, John," Sherlock declared sternly. "I will not go to the Met's Christmas party."

"But I told you, it's for a good cause. They're participating to Christmas Jumper Day this year. For the children! You might pretend to be a sociopath all you want, Sherlock, but I do know you... and you have always had a soft spot for kids," his flatmate countered. True, the consulting detective wasn't very good with people, much less crowds, but this surely warranted an exception.

"They are less idiots than adults, sometimes," the sleuth conceded, shrugging. "I wonder if logic is brainwashed out of people by society on purpose, you know."

"Yeah, well, you can conduct all the social experiments you want at the party," John prompted, hoping the – certainly unwise – concession might tempt his friend. Sherlock Holmes was a celebrity after everything that happened... which meant that news of his participation might draw more people to the event. More people meant more money for children in need of saving. Everybody won.

"Besides, if it's a jumper-required occasion, I will have to be excused. I don't own any," the detective retorted, smiling. He was all for helping the children – he'd make a sizable anonymous donation to the association. He just didn't see why that would require submitting himself to the company of a bunch of drunk idiots.

"I'll buy you one," the doctor replied immediately, waving away the obstacle. He would have offered one of his own, but it would have looked ridiculous on someone taller and a bit leaner than he was. Sherlock already didn't like the idea of knitwear. There was no need to offend his aesthetic sense, too.

"Only if I can do the same – and you'll wear it," the detective bartered, a calculating glint in his eyes.

"Sherlock...I do own a Christmas jumper. I own several, in fact," John reminded him, feeling rather uneasy.

"Yes, but your taste is...well..." the consulting detective trailed off, with a vague gesture. Not that he really hated John's taste. But there was not one of John's jumpers which utterly complimented him, in his opinion, and that needed to be remedied.

"So is it a deal? Are we going, wearing jumpers selected by each other?" the doctor insisted, wanting a clear agreement so that Sherlock would not try to find a loophole and refuse at the last minute.

The sleuth sighed. "We're going. Unless there's a case last minute."

"Lestrade will have warned his colleagues to let you have that one evening, and he's certainly not calling you in himself," his blogger pointed out. They'd discussed it in advance, knowing that was how his flatmate would have tried to avoid the reception.

"Mycroft might call, though. You know how these politicians are, always losing state secrets," Sherlock remarked, huffing in scorn at their ruling class.

"True, well then, we better call your brother and tell him you'll be busy that day. After all, whatever national emergency will keep for an evening...or he can put his secret service on it," John said, taking out his phone. "You know what, since we're already calling, I'll invite him too o the party. I'm sure Lestrade won't mind. More people, more contributions."

"You wouldn't dare," the sleuth retorted. Mycroft and parties didn't mix. Honestly, he still wondered how someone who despised humanity as a whole like his brother had ever managed to go anywhere in politics, much less acquire his position.

The doctor's look said, "Watch me," as clearly as any word, and indeed, he was calling Mycroft and explaining the initiative. A jumper and a couple of pounds to spare for kids in need. It was all you needed to participate. "Really? Thanks Mycroft, see you there," he concluded, with a smug grin.

At that, the consulting detective ripped the phone from his hand, fully expecting the whole call to have been faked. There was no way that his brother would agree to attend. This time, though, he was in for a shock. Not only Mycroft Holmes was effectively on the line, but he confirmed that he would take part to the party John had 'so thoughtfully' invited him to and sternly announced that he expected to see his little brother there.

"But...but Mycroft...there'll be people! You hate people! The only club you are a member of is Diogenes, where people are meant to be silent, for God's sake!" the younger Holmes protested.

"Believe me, Sherlock, I am very aware of that. But unlike you, I can behave and suffer through a couple unpleasant hours if the result is worthwhile... And this charity event definitely has that requirement. See you soon, brother mine. Otherwise, I might have to inform Mummy of a few things..." the elder brother trailed off, smirk evident even over the phone.

"This is blackmail!" the consulting detective protested loudly.

"Well then, at Scotland Yard you'll be able to press all the charges you want. I'll see you there, Sherlock," Mycroft concluded, before hanging up.

He really had no choice, had he? He would have to go to a party. With actual people. People who hated him – at least 90% did, and that was a prudent estimate. Drunk people who hated him. The things he did for John. If Mycroft really showed up, of which he wasn't at all sure, he could tease him, at least. Or play Deductions drunk. They'd never played drunk – or, in his case, high. Maybe Mycroft wouldn't win this time.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, of course. Otherwise season 4 would have been way better!_

 _A.N. I discovered this happens in an alternate timeline where things derail from the show after ASIB, as in there's at least an extra year before Jim implements his 'fall' plan. If Mofftiss can retcon the show as brutally as they've done, I can do this because Irene is awesome and Kate loves her so very much. And the girls are annoyed and need to spread the gay._

 _Also, I know, I know, I seriously thought this would be out in ten days, and it's been three months… I have no excuses. Unless I can say that December was really busy and I've been suffering from Mofftiss-related PTSD ever since January? ^^''' Everyone who likes this, thank ficnic for giving me the much needed kick to end this! At least, I hope that this being long-ish (I honestly thought when I set out to write this chapter, that it would be another 1000-1500 words) can be a sort of apology. I am sorry!_

The day of the dreaded party had finally come, and both tenants of 221B had nicely wrapped packages in their hands. Sherlock was still frowning, but he seemed resigned to his fate. Impatient, he went first, offering his choice.

John was ready to face the most obnoxious, ridiculous, humiliating Christmas jumper ever created. He'd forced his flatmate, and certainly retribution was in order. When he opened the gift, though, he was wordless with awe. It wasn't awful. It was a very beautiful jumper, mostly blue but with geometrical patterns in red, white and green...and it was the softest thing he'd ever touched.

"You don't like it?" the sleuth asked, when his friend's silence stretched more than his nerves could bear. He'd tried to find something like the ones John already had – no silly Christmas imagery, just nice patterns. But the blue background of this one would really bring out his flatmate's eyes. That's what he'd thought, but...really, what did he know about jumpers? He shouldn't have tried.

"I love it. It's awesome, Sherlock. Is it...cashmere?" the blond countered. How could Sherlock think he could possibly not appreciate such an item? He just was uncertain because he usually went for the common wool, not the higher quality type.

The detective only nodded, and then held out his hands. For all that he hated the oncoming party and jumpers in general, there was something like a kid's eagerness in him now.

"Not nearly as beautiful, but I thought it might be...proper," John declared with a smile. "I do know for a fact that you wear a jumper sometimes. You should have one."

The sleuth regretted bitterly the one time he'd actually fallen asleep on the sofa and been caught by his flatmate wearing one of his jumpers – which, obviously, was entirely the wrong size for him. He'd done the only thing he could. Claimed that he'd been cold. "It smelled like you and I was pining like a champ," would not be an acceptable justification. And now he had to wear whatever John had selected and...well, better to do this quick. Like ripping a band-aid. "That's...how did you find this, John?" he queried, in awe.

His new jumper was solid black – none of these garish Christmas colours – with the image of a skull. One who looked considerably like Billy. (Don't be stupid, Sherlock, all human skulls are rather similar, inner Mycroft chided). And under it, the jumper proclaimed, "Alchemist." It might refer to someone performing a dead form of magic, but it was the practice which eventually gave birth to chemistry, not only in the root of the word. The consulting detective had learned the periodic table by heart at nine years old, and he still had one hung on his bedroom wall. True, there was a concession to Christmas spirit – 'Billy' was wearing a Santa hat. But it wasn't half as irksome as Sherlock had feared. Every other detail was too perfect.

"On a website. Why? Is there something wrong? I can always lend you one of mine, Sherlock. You're not getting out of this," John replied, slightly panicked (he thought his flatmate would like it, why doesn't he?) but determined.

"Tempting, but no, it's quite perfect. I might need to browse later to see what else they have," the detective replied, without thinking. Oh God, he said tempting. Why did he? John was going to have a sexual crisis now.

Luckily, his blogger didn't. He only smiled brilliantly and said, "Well, I'm going to my room. We have to dress – going out in ten minutes?"

The sleuth nodded, and ten minutes later they were downstairs...where they were joined by an unexpected Mrs. Hudson, in a red jumper which proclaimed, "Oh deer," the O sporting a pair of antlers. "You boys didn't mean to go partying alone, did you? I mean, usually I'd be all for letting the young ones have fun, but this is for charity, and I certainly have a couple pounds to spare for kids in need," their landlady declared, clucking her tongue.

They opened the door...and closed it. "Why are there reporters, John?" Sherlock asked crossly. "I haven't had a case in two weeks, never mind one to stir this chaos."

"Ah, I *might* have written a blog post about us going to the party. I thought, you know, some of your fans might want to pop up too, and that'd be more money for Save the Children. If paparazzi showed up, I thought they'd be at the party...and, well, all advertising for that is nice. Maybe someone who didn't know would look for it next year. I didn't know that the idea of you wearing a jumper for once would have everyone in such a tizzy. I'm sorry!" John confessed, looking properly contrite.

Before they could ponder what to do, Sherlock received a text. It said simply, "Back door. Anthea." He read it aloud, and rolled his eyes. As if they needed to be told to consider the suggestion.

"Well, but won't these rude people have surrounded the house?" Mrs. Hudson wondered.

"Anthea works with Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson. I don't think you've met her yet. But if she says it's safe, we can trust her. After all, if anyone can keep a street clear of anyone unwanted, it's the British government," John explained, relieved that his faux pas was being fixed.

True to form, there was a black car by the back entrance. For once, though, Mycroft had done without a chauffeur. He was behind the wheel himself, with Anthea at his side in the front seat. For once, Sherlock accepted the lift without a quip. Instead, his blogger remarked with a smile, "I thought Anthea would be the one on driving duty."

She didn't appear to have heard at all, but Mycroft replied, aghast, "Dear God, doctor, do you wish us all defunct? She'd never be able to keep her eyes on the road for more than thirty seconds!"

The woman in question muttered a, "Busy," without raising her gaze from her phone.

"Case in point," Mycroft huffed, entering traffic.

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Lestrade noticed them first and came over, meaning to welcome and show them to the refreshments. He was wearing a funny jumper with the caption 'Christmas has broken me' above a scene where a drunk gingerbread man stumbled away from a mountain cabin. Honestly, if his face was any indication, that was less of a joke and more of a confession. Rough time at home, probably. The DI greeted, before Sherlock could deduce as much aloud, "Hey everyone, happy to see you! I'd read your post, John, but I didn't think you'd manage the miracle anyway. Mrs. Hudson, you look dashing!"

The old woman cooed happily. Mycroft and Anthea were a couple of paces behind, and just observing the interaction. It was always the best thing to do, after all, especially in a public setting when one didn't know everyone. Besides, when the sight was pleasant, like in this case, enjoying it without getting involved for as long as possible was definitely the elder Holmes' way.

"And you've brought more...friends?" Greg finally noticed, with a slight hesitation. Of course, they could be John's friends, but he didn't expect Sherlock to react well to two tagalongs. The man could be truly possessive.

The consulting detective snorted in disdain, so his blogger – as always – stepped in for the introductions. "Ah, not exactly. This is Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, Greg. And his jumper is probably not a joke," he pointed out with a crooked grin. The British Government was wearing a blue jumper, with Christmas decorations' patterns, declaring boldly, "I know what you did last Christmas."

"Honestly, John, you don't need to scare people off me. I'm not all knowing. Just observant," Mycroft remarked softly.

"And his clever lady friend...well, colleague, I guess, is named Anthea. I'm honestly wondering if she picked her jumper to introduce herself," the doctor continued, smiling. The PA picked a black jumper with a poinsettias' ribbon on it.

"What?" Lestrade replied, looking puzzled.

"Anthea comes from a Greek root meaning flower," Anthea explained, raising her eyes for a moment, "and it seems it will be less effective a way to avoid talking than I thought." She sighed.

"Sorry, you won't find the majority of the police force knowing Greek," Greg said, shrugging. She nodded to acknowledge it, but her eyes were already back on her phone, and she drifted slowly towards one of the walls.

To everyone's discomfort, Sally Donovan – who'd apparently been close, but since she had her back turned on them, they hadn't particularly noticed in the crowd – stalked towards them, a glass in hand, and declared, "Wait, did I hear right? There are _two_ of them? And the freak thought it was a good idea to introduce us to the other one?"

" _I_ was against this whole thing from the start," Sherlock groused, crossing his arms.

"It surprises me that even with your clearly lacking brain impaired by the alcohol you would protest about more people coming to a charity party, Miss..." Mycroft replied placidly, seizing her with a look.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan," she rebuked him immediately, glaring, but a tiny shift betraying that she was feeling rather uncomfortable, "and I'm not impaired."

"Duly noted," Mycroft said, "I was trying to offer an excuse for your behaviour, but if you're sure... I suppose I had better mingle with my own crowd, then."

"Yep," she agreed, buoyed by his apparent willingness to concede on her territory. She blanched when she saw him beeline for her Superintendent.

"Oh, don't worry, Sally," the consulting detective drawled, "he's probably only asking if the commissioner is here yet. I don't think Mycroft would bother with anyone under that rank."

"You're having me on," she replied testily. "What is another freak like you supposed to be, anyway?"

"Oh, just the British government, dear. I know, I know, he might not officially hold the title. But surely you've heard the words éminence grise?" Mrs. Hudson piped in, after taking a fortifying sip of the drink Lestrade offered her.

Sally went grey, and to everyone's surprise, Anthea came back from her disappearing act and took her gently by the arm. "Now, now, don't go ganging up on her. I know better than anyone how tiring it is to have to deal with a Holmes all day, but they're not all so bad when one gets used to them. Come have another glass, Sergeant, and you can tell me where you found that delightful jumper. I'm very interested in it," she purred.

"Interested in getting it off her, more like," Sherlock muttered, grimacing at the idea. "Then again, that's a sight better than Anderson will ever be."

"Do you really think Anthea was making a pass at her?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. If it was true, it would certainly boost his ego. The woman's casual dismissal of him had been somehow humiliating. At least if it was true he'd never had any chance from the start.

"Even if you didn't notice her pupils' width, which you really should have, who in their right mind would call Sally's jumper delightful? A red synthetic thing with a reindeer playing striptease over a cocktail glass? The only thing an article like that is for is to advertise one's looking for a partner, and rather desperately at that. I applaud her for realising she deserved a better partner, at least. She's lucky Anthea picked her up before someone else could," the consulting detective rapped out quickly.

"Can't argue with that. You're so sagacious!" his blogger beamed. It should have got old quickly, but his friend's deductions left him breathless each time. And thank God that he'd bit his tongue before uttering the 'foxy' that he almost said...but Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it, or being told that at least a couple of meanings applied in his case.

The detective blushed...or was it some of the fairy lights being projected around with a roaming effect landing on him? He just smiled in response.

Mrs. Hudson chimed in, "By the way, boys, have fun, I think I've seen someone I know and I really have to greet." She winked at them before leaving them alone with Lestrade in the sea of people.

"Ugh," the consulting detective remarked, grimacing. "What is it with everyone and pairing up tonight? Did someone spike the refreshments?"

"Oh come on! Just because she's sociable, unlike you. Such a sweet old lady! She wouldn't. Your mind is in the gutter, surely," the inspector protested, with a smirk and a pat to his shoulder.

"Mr. Chatterjee would be delighted to inform you she very much would. Good for you she's gone, Geoff, you don't want to see Mrs. Hudson's reaction if you insinuate she's too old to have a love life. Besides, I would tell you to warn whomever she approaches – whom do you think taught me to pickpocket? Only, she's not really into badges...if your men miss a pair of handcuffs or two by the end of the evening I wouldn't be surprised," Sherlock retorted, glaring darkly.

Lestrade dragged his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the idea at least as much as his consultant was. "Well...then...thanks for the warning. I suppose I'll just...go. Maybe talk to the Chief and put in a good word for Sally, in case your brother just got her fired. She might have a temper, but she's not at all a bad cop," he said, shrugging.

Sherlock looked unconvinced by his words, but John nodded, "Sure, you do that, Greg."

With his departure, the consulting detective looked around, seeming a bit lost. "How long are we supposed to stay, John? There's all these...people. We did give our donation at the entrance, so...is there really any reason for us to stay?"

"Breathe, Sherlock. We'll just stay a bit more, than we can ask Mycroft for a ride back, or call a cab. We can...mingle a bit. Play something. Would you deduce people for me? We can giggle all we want, and people will attribute that to alcohol," his blogger proposed, smiling softly.

The sleuth will never, ever be able to resist a request from John – especially not one worded like that – or a chance to show off. When the two are one and the same, it was obvious that he would accept eagerly. "Can't drink anymore, though. Appear to, sure. But deductive powers are way too easily dulled, and then where would the fun go?" he quipped.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm pretty sure you could make up random deductions about people, and I would love it anyway," the doctor acknowledged, a twinkle in his eyes. "But are you telling me that you, Sherlock Holmes, are a lightweight?"

"Never found a reason to build up a resistance to it – when people went to get pissed, my recreational substances of choice were rather different, as you know. Besides, high alcohol consumption tends to drag the true thoughts out of people, and neither my acquaintances nor I were ever particularly eager to know our respective opinions of each other," the detective admitted, not looking at his friend. It appeared as if he was already seeking a victim for his deductions, but in truth, he didn't want to see whatever John's judgement about his confession would be.

His friend's only reaction was a conspiratorially whispered, "I'll tell you a secret, Sherlock. I'm a lightweight too. Awfully so."

The consulting detective's eyes swivelled to John's face, and yep, there were no negative feelings at all to be read. No mocking. No contempt. Not even pity. His brain's first reaction was to deduce the reasons behind his blogger's words. Of course John wouldn't build a resistance to high quantities of alcohol. With his sister's and – Sherlock suspected – his father's abuse of drinks under his eyes since a tender age, John would be reluctant to touch even a drop of it. He learned to try it – mostly in uni, to fit in – but he would be too scared of ending up like the rest of his family to ever drink enough to get used to it. Besides, his never protesting being cast as the designated driver probably made him in high demand between friends all the same. Still, the sleuth had enough sense not to mention any of this aloud, instead simply smiling. Who knew who might overhear them. He was getting better at human interactions, wasn't he?

They just slip between people, Sherlock looking them over and whispering into John's ear. Not that he strictly needs to – whisper, that is. There's enough loud chatter around to cover whatever they're saying. But it feels so nice, and John is not objecting. To be fair, some deductions are way too simple. It's not just the tiny details that are very telling. Some things smack you in the face. Like the young, blond officer, "A sergeant, John, look at the bearing – the confidence, but not too strong," wearing a dark jumper, decorated with a few patterns and three reindeer busy coupling. All three of them. "If I've ever seen a man advertising his evening's program, he's the one," the sleuth comments, making John snort.

"Can you figure out which of the three he wants to be, too?" his blogger asked, a gleam in his eyes.

"Why, John? Are you interested?" the consulting detective inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope. Not my type," the doctor retorted immediately.

"Lack of breasts?" the detective supposed, wanting to hear it, in a sudden fit of masochism.

"Not at all. I simply prefer being the most shameless one in the bedroom," John mentioned airily. "I know, I know, that's not a good quality."

"I am not going to blame you for that, John," Sherlock said, smiling.

"Something else juicy?" his blogger asked, looking around as if he could figure something out himself.

"Oooh – yes!" the consulting detective crooned happily. "We knew Donovan left Anderson, but not that she did because their relationship came to his wife's ears and she flipped out. There's a divorce in his immediate future."

"What did you get that from?" his friend blurted out. The genius' deductions would never cease to amaze him.

"Just look at him, John! His jumper is the wrong size for him – but it would have fit him nicely years ago. Not to mention how ghastly it is – red with dinosaurs' skeletons? Doesn't that come from that movie you insisted on making me watch? Look how uncomfortable he is, avoiding people's eyes.. He didn't pick it himself and wear it proudly. Besides, there's a faint smell of smoke coming off him, and he doesn't even smoke cigarettes. His wife burned most of his things in retaliation, and this is the one jumper he could save from the bonfire. An old one, from when he was younger and leaner and did not mind being a fan. That he's come anyway despite his problems goes to his credit, I suppose… Though he probably would do anything to stay out of his house, if he's even allowed back in," the sleuth do you mean explained.

"I'm not sure if I should go offer him a drink and give him a shoulder to cry on or just pretend we haven't seen him," the doctor remarked, chuckling.

"The second," Sherlock rumbled, "or you'll be there listening to his misfortunes all night, and then I'll be even more bored." Hopefully John would not call him out on his poorly masked possessiveness. That was probably at least a bit not good.

Luckily, his blogger only nodded. "Well, since I did drag you into this, making sure you're entertained is the least I can do," John agreed promptly. Besides, comforting drunks over romantic breakups was something he got more than enough of with Harry. Any excuse not to get involved was a godsend.

They were interrupted by an enthusiastic, "Oh John, you managed to bring him!" It was Molly, who'd noticed them and bee-lined towards the couple, getting closer from their back.

They pivoted on the spot, the detective almost alarmed. How had he allowed himself to be talked into this? Was she going to attempt to flirt with him again? Seriously, how did one let a girl down gently and retain her favour for possibly unlawful endeavours?

The doctor had it much easier. "That jumper is too cute, Molly!" he praised, smiling warmly. She wore a green one, with white cats and snowflakes patterns and a kitten's face, dressed as Santa Claus, complete with heavy moustache and beard, announcing, "Meowy Christmas!"

She smiled brightly, "I was looking for the both of you. There's someone who wanted to be introduced to you very much. Come on, Stella!" the pathologist called, turning behind.

Another woman came forward. She wore a gray jumper with a grumpy looking cat dressed as Santa too, but this one declared himself as, "Santa Claws." She looked superficially like the consulting detective: high cheekbones, dark hair pulled in a practical bun. "DI Stella Hopkins, Mr. Holmes. I've been tempted to call you for a case before, but I admit I was a bit daunted," she said, smiling and offering her hand.

"As long as your case is not boring, you'll be welcome at 221B Baker Street any day. If it is boring, you really should be able to solve it yourself," Sherlock replied, shaking her hand.

"And this is him being polite," John chuckled, offering his hand in turn, "but seriously, he's always starved for cases, and you shouldn't believe anything Sergeant Donovan or people in her circle say. Ask Lestrade," John intervened. "John Watson, by the way."

"Oh, I know. I read the blog," Hopkins assured, smiling back. "And it wasn't Donovan to put the fear of coming forward to Mr. Holmes in me. It was Dimmock, still rather miffed at being downgraded and having Lestrade's presence requested during your first case together. It appears he can hold a grudge."

The sleuth sniffed, expressing all his deep disinterest for both inspector Dimmock and his feelings in one wordless huff.

"To be fair, I was there, and Dimmock started being an ass to us first. Practically on sight," the blogger felt the need to point out, shrugging the worst of the venom off his words.

"I can believe that. Sadly, I know how annoying he can be first hand. But at least this persuaded me to seek someone I was sure you could stand as a go-between, and that's how I met Molly," Stella replied, beaming.

"We're made for each other, wouldn't you say? We match, after all. And then, mistletoe did the rest," Molly announced, blushing a bit. She looked embarrassed and smug at the same time.

"I…suppose," Sherlock said, but his face contorted in a grimace. Now, this could be the best bit of news he'd got since the last case above a 7 – she would clearly not pursue him anymore. But did she need to give him the mental image of the both of them hooking up? (Also, his brain sadly leapt from that to what would certainly follow…TMI, as John would say. Never mind that it was implied. He didn't want to think of girls. John's continuous dates were bad enough for him.)

"We certainly are, Molls, but never mind that. I should have known Dimmock was an idiot. I mean, I met him, and he wouldn't take an hint, and look at him now – trying to suck up to the Superintendent…these kind of people always try to bully the ones they don't have to bow to. Oh well, it was lucky that I looked for someone to help me break the ice anyway. Maybe I should go and thank him. I'll be by Baker Street if I get anything interesting, Mr. Holmes," Hopkins interjected, trying to smooth things over. She couldn't help the instinct to claim her partner, though, and prompted, "Come along, Kitty," which Molly did quickly, saying goodbye with a nod, and blushing brighter.

They still walked around a bit, because people watching – and deducing – was the most fun you can have with a Holmes that requires neither dead body nor a nsfw warning. Not that John would know that last one by experience, no matter how much he longed to. And finally they spotted both the Superintendent – who seems to be looking for someone, possibly Mycroft, because God knows that trying to cosy up with people more powerful than you does not stop once one acquires a certain rank – and Dimmock, in his boss' shadow after having ranted to his heart's content.

John snickered. "Oh, that's precious. Dimmock tried to acquire some information on the superintendent's attire so he could conform, to pretend 'great minds think alike' or something like that. And whatever partial gossip he obtained made them very much mismatched."

He wasn't Sherlock, but some things were obvious. When the Superintendent sported a green jumper declaring "Chief Elf Officer," and Dimmock a black one with the picture of an elf with his tongue hanging out in the most ridiculous expression, holding a sign saying "North Pole Police/Buddy Elf/50362/Sugar Junkie", there was no need to infer. "Do you think the Superintendent is a junkie, sugar or otherwise?"

The sleuth actually observed him keenly for a moment, before declaring, "From an expert's opinion, I wouldn't say so. His vice of choice is adultery. I would bet that Irene knows what he likes."

"Knows? Not…knew?" John blurted out, before biting his lips. He didn't mean to refresh the wound, if his friend had momentarily forgotten his crush's death. But she'd faked her death once already, and the doctor couldn't help but wonder if the Woman truly was out of their lives, or if she'd come back to invite Sherlock to 'dinner'. If he would finally accept. God, the mere mention of her made him want to bristle like a territorial dog.

"Isn't she in America, John?" the sleuth asked, with a hint of a crooked smile and a humorous glint in his eyes.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. I…forgot," his blogger agreed. He had agreed to spread Mycroft's lies. He'd just been so relieved that Irene was finally deceased, and would not be able to threaten the both of them anymore, that apparently he'd deleted – as Sherlock would say – his white lie. "I'm an idiot," he added, rubbing his neck.

"It's an old case," the consulting detective rumbled, "you don't have to feel guilty. You wrote it already. Why would you need to remember the details?"

"You do," the doctor couldn't help but point out. He didn't want to be bitter. But God, did he hate the Woman, and how big a piece of his flatmate she'd claimed.

The sleuth only shrugged. "I'm starting to get bored," he whined, then. "For all the people here, all the deductions one can do are so dull. Not one person here has done anything interesting with their life. Can we go away?"

"In a moment. At the very least, we can't abandon Mrs. Hudson without a word. She wouldn't forgive us," John remarked, looking around in vain for their landlady.

"And what do you propose I do in the meantime? Everyone seems to be busy getting drunk, and I don't fancy that," Sherlock queried. Because of course he'd consider John responsible for his entertainment, since it was the man's fault he'd been dragged here in the first place.

"Dance maybe? Would you like that?" the doctor offered. The soundtrack of the party wasn't strictly composed of carols, luckily, and a few couples were already swaying gently around the room.

"With whom?" the sleuth inquired, sounding tempted but uncertain.

"Each other, if you want...at least until you find another partner that tempts you more," John replied with a shrug.

The detective nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly. "Sure...if it doesn't bother you. I mean, this is a public event. A press covered one. People are bound to talk about it."

"I offered, didn't I?" his blogger quipped back, smiling. "Besides, I'll tell you a secret. I'm the worst at dancing. If I have to step on anyone's feet, better them be yours."

There was a slow song coming up, and they swayed and twirled with it. John's right hand had instinctively rested on the small of Sherlock's back, the other's fingers lacing with his friend's, and these small points of warmth were for a second all the consulting detective's brain could process. It was a miracle he didn't stumble, or fell, his legs turned to jelly by the still somehow unexpected contact. Despite the offer, it seemed he didn't believe it would truly happen.

They were silent for a while. The sleuth has barely enough wherewithal to keep breathing, chatting – and making sense to boot – was entirely beyond his abilities at the moment. They were separated by just the smallest of gaps – and both seemed to gravitate ever-closer, without a word, a nod to agree on anything. It simply was what nature demanded.

The music shifted to a livelier tune, before anything could happen, and both took a half-a-step back. "You're not as bad as you said," the detective praised, with a soft smile.

"Probably I'm just used to following your lead," John replied, regaining what little distance he'd put between them.

Sherlock grinned at him, and then his eyes suddenly got cloudy.

"What...?" his friend asked, but before he could even finish the question, someone tapped on his shoulder.

"Can I cut in?" purred a voice out of John's nightmares. It couldn't be. She was dead. She was fucking dead. "I'll leave you with an even more talented dance partner."

…She wasn't dead. There Irene Adler was, dressed in painted-on black trousers and a red jumper wishing "Merry clitoris and a happy new year". John let himself be manoeuvred and pushed away from his companion out of sheer shock. He felt numb. She'd raised from the grave once again to come in between them. Well, that was some considerable stubbornness.

He only mildly registered his flatmate's outraged, "Irene!", already being led away by a woman he barely saw. The blogger actually had to blink to focus on the creature now holding him. Auburn hair, soft gray-green eyes. And a funny jumper decorated with a rainbow and declaring proudly, "Of course I'm pro gay. I didn't practice this much to stay an amateur gay." That should have been a reassurance. Instead, it only puzzled him. "You are with Irene, right? Her…partner?" he asked, hating how hesitant he sounded.

"Yep," she agreed, grinning blindingly at him. "Name's Kate, in case you've forgotten. I wouldn't begrudge you. people tend to be overwhelmed by Irene, and so I naturally fade in the background. I think you're acquainted with the feeling as well?"

John shrugged. "I don't mind."

"Of course you don't. You wouldn't still be by his side if you did," Kate agreed. She was manoeuvring the both of them in a way that he couldn't even see the pair they'd left to their own devices.

It was a mixed blessing, John supposed. He wouldn't have to see the both of them shamelessly flirt and possibly practically having over-the-clothes sex. On the other, he couldn't check what they were up to, and it drove him mad. He was concerned. Just concerned. Irene's usual tricks included non-consensual drugging and only God knew what else.

He couldn't help it. He had to poke at the crux of the situation. "You don't seem to mind as much as I do. It's not just people underestimating you. You don't seem to mind Irene throwing herself in Sherlock's arms."

Kate laughed, loudly and with abandon. "Throwing…herself…" she repeated, between giggles, before dissolving in peals of laughter once again. "Do you even know how to read, Doctor?"

"Hey!" John protested aloud, stopping abruptly.

Finally in control of herself, Kate insisted, "No seriously: _do_ you? Because Irene's and my jumpers have been picked especially to make a statement. And I have yet to meet a lesbian who would throw herself at any guy, after she realised her orientation at least."

"I _know_ that," the doctor huffed, "But Sherlock…"

"Has a magical healing cock, or lesbian turning cock, or whatever?" The redhead completed for him, leading him in a wide turn, and managing not to laugh at the poor man again. John went beet red, but before he could splutter some nonsense in defence of his jealousy, she continued, "Seriously, John. I empathise, God knows I do. Love is silly, and sometimes it makes you want to murder anyone who so much as looks the way of your beloved. But I've learned to trust Irene's love for me. And what's happening now certainly does not worry me, since the both of them are similarly inclined."

At that, John glared at her. "It's all well and good that you trust Irene, but Sherlock's…inclinations, as you say, are an utter mystery. If neither Mrs. Hudson nor I have any idea, I don't see how you can pretend to know."

"Don't you? Because he looks rather obvious to me, dear. Honestly, what does the poor boy need to do to signal he's besotted with you?" Kate retorted.

The doctor spluttered ridiculously at that, and protested in a hiss, "Sherlock doesn't feel things like that!"

"Sweet Mary mother of God give me strength," she sighed deeply, "that's why I don't like to deal with men. You're all complete idiots."

Rather than arguing, they kept twirling around the room in tense silence, glaring at each other. Kate held onto him, and it was easier to go along with her – give Sherlock the time with Irene he wanted (no matter what she said) – than leave her and risk interrupting something if he sought out his friend. Besides, at the very least she was pretty to look at.

In the meantime, Sherlock, not so far away, was pouting. "I'll have you know I'm a very good dancer," he declared.

Irene smiled at him. "I'm sure, sweetie. But Kate used to dance for the Royal Ballet. High stress job, she needed to unwind. We met. She eventually understood that she was giving her life for something that wasn't even her own dream, strictly speaking. It's incredible how parents can twist their children's mind and persuade them that a career is the only one for them. And of course, when she needed out, I had room for her…I was quite smitten already," she recounted, a soft, dreamy look in her eyes.

"Not that I'm not happy for you, but you haven't come back to London to gush about how you met, did you? I thought you were supposed to lay low, and here you are. There are photographers, in case you haven't noticed," the sleuth remarked with a sneer.

"Lookalikes exist. And who would believe that I would be so brazen and reckless that I'd do something like this? Besides, I'm dead, remember?" she murmured, shrugging. "As for why I'm here… for you, of course."

"I'm not having dinner with you," the detective huffed, rolling his eyes. "And technically, I should be the one leading this dance."

She pushed against him, like she'd been doing for a while. "I never follow anyone. Trust me, pretty boy. And for God's sake, that was a joke. I don't want to have dinner with you. I do want to free myself from the debt I have towards you. That would come back to bite me later, I have no doubt," she remarked.

"And what could you do for me? I hope you realise that, as much as I adore dancing, one song is not going to cut it, when I saved your life. Especially with what you interrupted," Sherlock questioned, glaring sharply at her.

Irene chuckled warmly. "I would apologise for that, but honestly, I despair of you getting anywhere on your own, dearie. You may have many, many more slow dances with your John. But left to chance, I simply don't trust the two of you to do things properly."

The glare intensified. "You think you know how to deal with John better than I do?" the sleuth hissed.

"Who of us is in a satisfying relationship? And which one is pining? I might not know your John as intimately – nor do I want to, don't bristle on me, peanut – but I do know how to seduce people. And the point of that is – making a move before you die of old age, you know," the Woman said, with a weird mix of condescension and fondness.

"I hate you," the detective mumbled sulkily, "and I will _murder_ you if whatever stupid move you've concocted will make John I'm not gay Watson run away from me."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," she assured him, spinning him around the room. "But love, you can't stop at what people say to determine the likely outcome of any event. You're the world's only consulting detective, you really should know better. I shudder to think whom you'd catch only listening to people's depositions."

"Are you saying my concerns do not have plenty of data backing them up? I resent that," the sleuth retorted bitterly.

"And what of the data which are obvious to anyone who's met the both of you for more than five seconds? You need to be more confident. I mean it," Irene huffed, this close to losing patience with the man. But clearing her debt – and more, if she knew how the boy felt, having him owing her big time – was definitely worth it. She needed to hold on only three more minutes.

Sherlock harrumphed wordlessly in frustration. There was no sense in arguing with her. Ignoring the woman was the only technique which worked – she was too used to always getting her way to see anyone's point, and too clever to be out-talked. And he was going along with her plans, like everyone else, when all he'd wanted was to twirl in John's arms for a song. Maybe two, if they couldn't find Mrs. Hudson to warn her they'd be leaving afterward. Was it too much to ask?

Thankfully, Irene seemed to have finally understood that her intrusion was unwelcome. The song was ending, when – with a last spin – she brought him back to back with John. The smell of him and Irene's self-satisfied smirk were all the clues he needed to be sure of it.

"Let's switch again, shall we?" the Woman urged, a glint in her eyes that should really have worried him.

That, he certainly wasn't going to object to. Both men turned, one of Sherlock's hands automatically going to his friend's side, and the other entwining fingers with John's. Proper dancing form, simply. It's not like he was aching for any excuse to touch him or anything. Which John clearly understood, as he didn't protest.

"Look up, boys," Kate called, laughter in her voice.

They did, naturally. Sherlock didn't react in any way, but then again, he'd probably deleted the tradition surrounding mistletoe, even if he could surely debate over its poisonous properties. John blushed, but then decided to just go along with it. One kiss. One single kiss would certainly not be the end of them – not when he had the custom to back his actions. They could shrug it off. His friend would probably delete it even before they got home.

John should have really played it safe. Kiss Sherlock's cheek, or something. There was no strict law that it had to be a kiss on the lips. But fuck it, this was surely going to be the only occasion he ever had to taste these maddeningly luscious lips. Besides, Kate would try to kick his ass if he wasted the opportunity she'd so carefully offered him.

So, he reached – damn the lanky git's height – and dropped a butterfly soft kiss on his Sherlock's lips. He didn't expect more than a second or two of contact (mmm, yes, they were as soft as they looked), but when Sherlock inhaled sharply and opened his mouth…well, John hadn't got the nickname Three Continents Watson by ignoring a chance when a partner was blatantly receptive. Besides, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

The consulting detective had suddenly lost all perception of his surroundings, all senses thoroughly focused on John… his lips, his tongue – playful, explorative, sensuous – dancing with his own. Someone might be staring (Kate and Irene, smugly, certainly). Someone might be taking photos (were these paparazzi's flashes disturbing the corner of his eyes?). Someone might be cheering, or even clapping (why would they?). Sherlock didn't see, didn't hear, completely absorbed in responding to the kiss in kind and recording every detail of it – and of John pressed against him. As powerful as his brain was, there was no way he would allocate one single neuron to double task when he was experiencing _this_.

Finally, forced by lack of oxygen, they separated, panting. "So… ready to cheat on your work?" John queried, grinning. The detective had responded to his kiss, after all. He didn't have to, he could have shoved John away when he tried deepening it, instead he'd gotten lost in it. It looked like Kate definitely had a point.

"What?" the brunet croaked. For once it was the sleuth not following his blogger's reasoning. It should be appalling. It wasn't. John wouldn't mock him for not understanding.

"You know, the whole 'married to my work' thing you mentioned at Angelo's. You seemed agreeable to, well, at least keep me as your bit on the side a moment ago," the doctor explained, joy and humour shining in his eyes.

"What? Oh no, never, John!" Sherlock retorted, apparently scandalized. His beloved's face fell immediately, heating in shame, but he continued, undaunted, "Of course you'd take first place. I loved you for too long to conceive of keeping you like some sort of meaningless mistress!"

John's grin was immediately back, blinding like the sun. "Oh, you did, did you? It so happens I loved you since forever, too. Which means we're leaving now, and I expect you to magic a cab as you usually do, I'll warn you."

For a few seconds, the consulting detective was literally stunned. Accepting that John found him desirable was revolutionary enough. But that he was loved? Loved by John Watson? That should have been impossible. The man knew his flaws, after all. And yet…Sherlock wasn't going to dissuade his beloved, even maybe he should have, because John would inevitably come to his senses sooner or later, and what then?

"Sherlock?" his blogger called out, concerned.

Oh. He'd been silent too long, hadn't he? He needed to say something – anything. and somehow what came out of his mouth was, "But what about Mrs. Hudson?"

John laughed – and it was so beautiful. "Mycroft won't leave her stranded here. Besides, she doesn't want to be inside when we'll get home…for a few good hours anyway. I plan to see how loud I can make you be."

It was the detective's turn to blush. With a soft, devious smile, the blond added, "Or we can have our first time in the Met's bathroom, if you like the idea, but honestly, I thought we deserved better."

Sherlock literally scampered towards the exit. "I'm sure I can find us a cab!" he blurted out, shivering when he realised John wasn't just following him as usual…he was _admiring the view._ This NSY Christmas party lark was worthy of becoming a tradition. 


End file.
